Bobby Drake Suicide
by GreenApples11
Summary: Bobby is just tired of it all, and feels he is missing something important. Suicide attempt. First try at this suicide story, so please comment.


Takes place post-X2, but kind of picture the characters personalities like that of X-Men Evolution. Angsty Bobby Drake fanfic. I don't own X-Men or any characters. Caution: Can be triggering.

Bobby's POV:

Everything just feels... numb. Yeah, pretty weird thing for 'The Bobster, troublemaker extraordinaire' to be saying, but hey, it's not like I care.

My own parents are terrified of/hate me. Rogue left me for the Grumpy Badger. I think I'm going through a second mutation, but it could just be me. My best friend left and turned to the dark side. Everyone is ignoring me, and when I do try to get the tiniest bit of attention with some good ol' Bobby humor, all I get are annoyed looks and frustrated huffs.

Nobody notices me anymore. It's not like I'm some attention whore waiting to bask in everyone's eyes on me, but just someone taking the time to say "Hi." would be nice. Heck, I would be satisfied if someone simply contemplated my existence.

I know everyone is mourning Jean, but the living have a few more feelings than a corpse. And I don't care if that was mean, I'm just tired of it all.

The team still treats me like a little kid. And a useless little kid at that. Like all I'm good for is cooling a freaking soda.

Like I said before, my powers have been funking out a lot. I'm pretty sure everyone just assumes I'm a clumsy dingbat. Or maybe they don't care enough to notice.

I'm pretty sure I'm depressed. Well- that's a lie. I know I'm depressed. I think the whole cry-myself-to-sleep thing gives a pretty big hint. Or maybe the scars on my arms. Those I hide at all costs, but someone _has_ to have noticed all the other obvious signs.

I've had bags under my eyes for weeks now, always moody, my behavior was definitely different than usual, I don't talk much, and I beat the living shit out of anything in the Danger Room with obvious rage I never knew I had.

I feel everything bottled up inside me, just waiting to explode. Yet at the same time, I feel weighted and tired. All this weight is on my shoulders, and I am just done with it all.

I want to end it all.

That night, when I was pretty sure everyone was asleep (especially any mind reading, handicapped, professors), I was going to do it. End it all. Release the tension. It would be so simple, to just jump. Nobody would give a damn. I'd be surprised if they'd even care enough to feel any sadness whatsoever. I doubt it.

I stood on the edge of the mansion's shingled roof, watching the starry sky. It would be nice for those twinkling little stars to be the last thing I see.

That's when I do it. I take a deep breathe, squeeze my eyes shut after one last peek at the stars, and jump.

The second I felt impact I expected it to be maybe a millisecond of pain then just blank, but I never would have expected it to be soft and furry. And holding me in warm blue arms, a few feet above the ground.

_McCoy_

Dr. McCoy had jumped and caught me.

I had failed my suicide attempt.

I will live.

We landed with a soft thud, and I just stared at Hank in silent horror.

"What were you _thinking_?!" Hank burst out, "You can't just jump from stuff like that. What if you couldn't build an ice slide fast enough? You would have gotten seriously hurt- probably _died_!"

He didn't know. But he... cares?

"That was kinda the point." I mumble softly, not making eye contact.

Hank stared at me in horror and disbelief.

"Y-y-you were... committing s-suicide." He said slowly, like there were cotton balls in his mouth.

"Oh look, he really_ is_ a genius." I say rudely.

Hank ignores the comment and does something very surprising.

He hugs me.

He hugs me so tightly I may have cracked a few ribs. It felt so good, to be wrapped in someone's arms, squeezing each other to death, and it hits me.

That's what I've been missing. That hug. That knowing that someone still cares about me. Loves me. Needs me.

It feels good.

I know soon, I'm going to get one hell of a talk with McCoy, but I'm kind of happy. I know he's as angry as hell, but I don't care. It's only because he was worried about me. He cares about me. The thought makes me smile. Something I haven't done in way to long. It felt good.


End file.
